


just tired, you know?

by ghostieboyo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Trans Harry Potter, everyone is kinda sad but thats life, i made all the main trio trans i do what i want, its happy i swear, its very good and gay, sirius and remus adopt harry, sirius makes eggs, the major character death is canon tho its james and lily, this is NOT canon compliant, writing this felt like healing i hope it comes off that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 07:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15262494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostieboyo/pseuds/ghostieboyo
Summary: It's the thirty-first of October, 1981 and Lily and James Potter are dead.Sirius is locked away, Remus is too in his own right, and Harry's been growing up without them.





	just tired, you know?

**Author's Note:**

> dont be fooled by the angst at the start kiddos its a warm time because i not so secretely want life to be a disney movie but gayer
> 
> harry is misgendered at the start bc hes a baby !! and he Trans!! but i didnt come up w a deadname bc as a trans kiddo that just feels bad man so hes "the kid" for a short time
> 
> also you can tell im american because i think i use feet/inches at one point. alas

It’s the thirty-first of October, 1981 and Lily and James Potter are dead.

Sirius looked at the end of his bed with ink stains on the sheet fabric and the soft, fuzzy blanket covered in sprinkles of color and    he could see it. _Them_ . He opened his mouth to speak it but words wouldn’t come, and Remus stood patiently, clearly on edge himself but he didn’t know yet, not really, and he knew he could never call the words to action. They continued, dormant, in the recesses of his mind, and all the while he was a flurry of neural activity, networks firing and repeating the images, the sounds— the screaming and the bright green light and the _Avada Kedavra_ and Lily and then, the little one crying– Sirius thought she was dead– but then it was the little one who _kept_ crying and Sirius ran and scooped her in his arms so fast because _he thought, he thought, he thought._ If he could move his lips at all in that moment, the singular thing he’d say is _keep crying, never, never stop crying._

All the while his eyes were dry and glazed, lips drawn thin. He clung tightly to the child as she clung to her security blanket, now damp with tears.

It took four hours before Remus managed to pull the child from his husband’s grasp and calm it. He waited patiently for Sirius to explain– though something wild danced in his eyes, an image of the terrified and lonely and scared lycanthrope child: bleeding, raw, shaking. He was swallowing it down, Sirius realized. So many questions, and so few words to say. Each one was a swift blow.

“He got them.” Sirius gasped out, voice softer than he intended. Nothing felt better. Everything was the same, except it wasn’t, and suddenly there was a world without James and Lily and everything felt distorted and uncomfortable like when you can see heat waves on roads and they make everything all squiggly and not safe for dogs to walk on.

The gears in Remus’s head sped up so fast he could hear them breaking, cracking, overheating. He was due for repairs soon. Dumbledore needs to know that their child is here, he said. It’s okay. It’s okay. She’s yours, you know, legally.

The dam in his eyes had always had a leak, but he pretended it didn’t exist, and his lip didn’t quiver as saltwater rivers fell down his face and he stared with horrified wonder at the small miracle with the fresh scar.

It’s okay, he said.

It’s okay.

 

But it wasn’t.

It took an arrest and an _I’m sorry, Mr. Lupin,_ a custody change and the child was dropped off at Lily’s monster of a sister’s house and Remus was alone, painfully alone, with his husband an innocent guilty man and his dead best mates’ kid in the hands of a devil who didn’t deserve the name of a beautiful flower. And he felt emptier than his sickening house, now drained of color and life and beauty. Every full moon he locked himself up and awoke the next morning naked and lonely again.

The first war had ended and nothing was peaceful.

  


Odd jobs and many moons and scar tissue over scar tissue. Painful years and easier years and regret and laughter. Order meetings where all eyes shone on him, years later, though he hadn’t said a word all night.

New, polished shoes and a job at Hogwarts.

 

As for Sirius– Twelve years. Twelve years and then he broke out. Twelve years— four thousand three hundred and eighty days— one hundred and five thousand, one hundred and twenty hours— and not a second of it without thinking of it all. Thinking of everything. A man is dangerous when a man thinks. He only stayed sane (if that can even be said) from the routine he made for himself: think about James, think about Lily, think about James and Lily, think about their kid, think about where she is now, think about Remus, think about the kid, think about James think about Lily think about Hogwarts Remus James Remus James Remus James the kid and Repeat.

But then he was out, and there was no routine. There was nothing but wilderness, and he missed the hateful comfort of a cell. But he kept running.

 

It was a minute’s walk between him and Remus and the Potter’s child, yet he might as well have been on the other side of the globe. It had to do.

And then he met the _boy_ (whoa!) named Harry and the man named Remus all over again and then Scabbers, Peter, the fucking rat, ran away again. But it wasn’t as bad. Someone knew the truth, and could prove it with passion. And he was out.

After the ‘I’m glad I have some real family left but also I’m male’ Harry talks (talks!) and a few hugs (hugs!) and some discussion of the Order, the two men found themselves alone in a room, without immediate threat, ignoring their pressing matters, for the first time in over twelve years. Harry had left Remus’s office just a few minutes ago. They didn’t dare touch each other. They only sat three feet apart and glanced at the other out of the corner of their eyes, as if looking directly would sting.

“I missed you,” Remus said. “I’m sorry– I’m so sorry, that’s not quite what you should be hearing, but– I missed you so much.”

And suddenly Sirius felt the weight of that one night and the years after and he curled inward, suffocating himself, allowing himself tears for the first time in so, so long.

Three feet turned into three inches turned into nothing but an embrace. “I missed you,” the other man muttered, “So, so much.” And after a while, he started talking, because back when they were still in school it had always calmed Sirius down to hear him ramble about pointless things. “Harry’s a great kid, you know. And he’s got people, that Weasley and Granger are transgender too. They’re wonderful friends. Smart and quick on their feet, they’re real Gryffindors. They look out for each other. He’s gotten into trouble a bit, but less than you used to. That boy’s very afraid of very many things, but that’s what makes him strong, I think. He’s on edge all the time usually, and then something clicks and he isn’t. Intense focus. Reminds me a little bit of myself. He has friends, very good friends. He’s strong. He has wonderful, intelligent friends. They look out for each other.” He kept repeating himself, stuck on a record scratch.

Sirius lifted his head from the other’s shoulder and examined him, finally, running his fingers along the sides of his face as the other stopped his rambling. “You’re real.”

“Of course I am.” He layered his right hand over the fugitive’s. “I’m real, Sirius.”

“Alright, I get that you’re real serious, but you don’t always have to be so uptight about it.”

Remus huffed out a surprised laugh at the unexpected joke. “I see Azkaban hasn’t changed your shoddy humor.”

“Wait until you see what else hasn’t changed.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“I’ve no idea.” And both men laughed, just because they could. When they calmed and settled into a more comfortable yet somewhat awkward embrace Sirius moved to kiss the familiar stranger and hovered in front of his face. “Is this alright? I didn’t know if you still… I thought you might just move on or…”

“Yes, God, Sirius, it’s more than alright.” Really, he wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to say that he knew he was innocent, had looked all evidence head-on and yet every cell in his body said he was still good. He wanted to tell him what the Order thought and just what they had been up to and how he hated moments where he walked free and knew he was still in love with a man rotting in prison. But that was a little too much right now.

They kissed softly, shyly, and just like that everything felt real, and they felt like husbands again, real and proper with their hands linked together, the fugitive and the teacher.

They didn’t do anything that night, really. Only explored each other, curiously, wistfully, updating their maps that had been twelve years out of date. Sirius was gone in the morning, but within reach this time.

 

Everyone persuaded Remus to stay, who was on the brink of resigning since Snape had exposed him as a werewolf– but in reality it was mostly the already corrupt Slytherins who judged him for it, and he could deal with a few rude students. It was Harry and the Weasleys and Granger and Longbottom, Lovegood and Finnigan and Thomas that made him stay, really. These, he realized, were the orphans of the war, awkward and growing and brave. They needed him. Harry needed him, and the boy clung onto his Defense of the Dark Arts class like it would teach him the secrets of the universe. It was less academic interest and more personal discovery and fear, he noticed, but that was a drive on its own.

Then Harry’s third year ended and the summer of scar pains and abuse and Portkeys and Quidditch matches began for the young boy. Sirius, upon learning the full effects of Petunia and her family’s abuse and ready to fight through thick and thin for the boy, had to be restrained and mollified by Remus, so as not to cause any further issue. Then– then the Death Eaters, and it’s anxiety all over again, and it’s worry for Harry in nervous little spikes, over and over, like one of those strange beeping machines in Muggle hospitals. And Sirius feels helpless. He hates being confined as a fugitive after he’s already out of Azkaban.

 

Soon enough, however, Dumbledore more or less directly caused Sirius to be acquitted— there was no more hiding, no more fear of being caught and Kissed by a Dementor, or taken back to Azkaban. He got his life back.

Then, as if on cue, he’s legally allowed to bring up custody.

 

“He can choose.” Sirius says, turning to Harry. He’s looking at his godfather like he’s the first adult in the world to allow him to have a voice, and that just breaks his fucking heart. “That is, he should choose. He has a right.”

He notes the doubt, the desperation, the relief in Harry’s eyes that all come in stages. He shows emotion through his eyes the same way Lily did, he realizes, but with the same microexpressions as James. Sirius figures the boy might have heard enough of that shit to last a lifetime, though. Besides, Harry is an entirely new person, young and fresh and scared and needing some _family_ . He can be that, for James. For _Harry_.

“I’d like to live with Sirius, if that’s alright, sir.”

 

He finally notifies Remus when the werewolf moves into No. 12, Grimmauld Place. Both had been silently accepting that the other needed company, though neither said it outright– they just anticipated the next course of action to bring them closer, as if working their way up to the relationship they once had. Remus gently slams his open book on his own head and has to honestly ask if Sirius is joking, and when he’s not his face actually _lights up_ and he doesn’t turn tail and hide, but rather is so overwhelmed with excitement that he just pulls Sirius into a hug and tells of how relieved he is that Harry’s going to get a home, a _real_ home. And then they’re talking about fixing the place up, burning that disgusting family tree and cleaning the cobwebs and getting better lights and brighter colors. Make it less like an abandoned house and more like a home.

Neither, as it turns out, had ever told Harry about them, because that summer when he opens the door there’s a very strange ‘Why is Professor Lupin staying here’ conversation and Remus stutters over his explanation but in the end the boy is positively beaming because a year ago he didn’t even expect one godfather but now he has _two_. In that moment Harry’s the giddy kind of tired, and he giggles and smiles and yawns until Sirius suggests he save all the excitement for the morning and shows him to his room.

Breakfast is sizzling eggs benedict and birds chirping on an overcast day, and Sirius is _so very_ proud of himself both because he’s barely cooked a day in his life and he forgot what real food even _meant_ for twelve whole years (Remus had to remind him of every step, which no one wanted to bring up). Remus sees Harry shaking his leg and tapping the table as they talk about the school year, so out of the blue he asks Sirius if they should still go ahead and fix up the place and if Harry should help out, and the boy makes such a relieved sigh at the opportunity to help with something and just stay in motion that he almost slides out of his chair.

“We should do it the Muggle way!” He says.

They choose a color palette and get supplies that afternoon (being either unemployed or on break translates to a lot of free time for whimsical decorating projects). First, there’s a lot of damage and some rot and just general grossness and the Muggle way takes a frankly painful amount of time to deal with that, so Harry gives them a pass on magic for the moment. Harry jumps when he discovers Kreacher, and Sirius figures it’s been long enough and goes searching for some article of clothing to give the old elf— of course, he still hangs around, ever loyal to the long dead family. Next they throw out furniture they don’t want,Sirius being the executive on the decision-making there, but it’s a lot of painful memories that lead to _throw that out, throw that out, oh_ absolutely _toss that_ and then they leave the horrific Walburga Black portrait last for her own _dis_ owned son to set fire to himself.

Truly, Sirius thinks as he stares at the ashes, he and his husband could have gotten a different place far, far away from here, and ignored it all, and left Number 12 Grimmauld Place for Order meetings and Kreacher to mourn in only.

But it’s so much more fun to destroy your garbage family’s most prized possessions. Alongside your half-blood bisexual lycanthrope husband and Muggle-raised, Voldemort-destroying, transgender godson, not to mention.

Walburga is rolling in her grave.

 

Redecorating takes pretty much all summer.

It’s changing lights, painting walls, picking out furniture, spreading rugs, and ripping out the moth-eaten curtains. It’s kissing husbands in the newfound sunlight as Harry pretends to gag across the room.

At one point Ron and Hermione came over and within five minutes of their arrival are put to work placing various impulse buys wherever they see fit— embroidered fabrics (hung tastefully above Sirius and Remus’ bed), unmoving Muggle posters of scientific diagrams (stuck next to the bookcase in Remus’ study, previously the master bedroom, but reassigned by Sirius’s decree of “fuck this place, it can be whatever we want”), a VERY pink tablecloth spread over the ground floor table (perfect for chaotic yet formal group dinners), and a thousand absolutely ridiculous knicknacks tossed into the newly cleaned attic (or, Sirius’s Affectionately Named Cool Hangout Spot).

The guest rooms are simple and warm and not menacing anymore. Soon, late Order meetings change from _actually I really should be getting home I couldn’t possibly stay_ to _oh it’s late could I perhaps just spend the night?_

Sirius still can’t make anything but eggs, but he’s getting very good at it.

In an effort to revisit an old hobby, Sirius buys a set of paints and brushes. When he picks up a brush, he finds his hand unsteady and eyes unfocused. He used to be able to carve an object’s features into a canvas, but his first painting in fourteen years is unsteady and blotchy and he gets so frustrated that he starts streaking colors, ignoring form, and the only movement that results is a strange ebb and flow of wavering colors. Remus hangs it in the entrance hall where Walburga Black’s portrait used to loom.

Redecorating takes pretty much all summer.

 

It’s almost the start of the next term meaning the definite start of busy yet charming mornings filled with _thanks for the eggs_ and _oh god I didn’t finish my summer work for Potions_ and _dear do you think introducing Boggarts is too drastic right away or a way to make the class interesting early on?_

Homework is hastily completed and lesson plans written up and more shaky artwork painted. Soon enough it’s the night before Harry and Remus are due for their annual train ride— luggage is packed, alarms are set. It’s late and they really should be getting sleep, but instead Remus and Sirius are leaning on each other on the couch, neither making an effort to move upstairs to their bed.

“Are you going to be okay? At Hogwarts?” Sirius asks.

“Are _you_ going to be okay?” Remus replies and, yeah, alright, fair question.

“I hope. I’m just worried. Take care of yourself.”

Remus lightly punches him in the arm and yawns. “Shut up, you make it sound like I’m leaving forever.”

Sirius stays quiet.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey. I’m not.”

“I know.”

“It’s just my job.”

“I know.” Sirius kisses his forehead. “Do keep me updated, though. And keep an eye on Harry for me.”

He smirks. “You can write him yourself, you know.”

“And I do, but it’s adorable when you talk about him.”

“Fuck off,” he responded, but it was muffled and soft.

They both giggled a little. Hands intertwined loosely, they felt themselves caught in a lazy comfort. Remus was slowly falling further asleep, and Sirius looked around the living room that used to blend so easily into his nightmares growing up. They had moved and changed the couch, now in front of the two gigantic windows. It was something light blue and decent with a couple throw pillows and a large quilt sent over from Molly, mostly for Remus, as he tends to get cold.

It was the middle of the night and the start of a new term and the two men felt themselves move on. They were scarred, still, and worried as all hell for these bright new Hogwarts kids. But sitting there, and watching the new, abstract tapestry dancing softly on the wall across the room made it feel okay to bring up that one time back at Hogwarts when Sirius stole Remus’s jumper and managed to convince the werewolf that it had always been his. They were then caught up in a wave of nostalgia, not unhappy, as they didn’t have room for that anymore. That day, James managed to hex Sirius so that when he tried to take the jumper off there would be another underneath, then another, and another still, and the two men’s thoughts tired of _oh...James_ and grew into _oh, James!_

Because the reality was that they were just _tired_ , but they used to be tired of living, thinking, breathing, and now it was tired of being sad. Exhaustion paved way to a newer, cleaner form of itself, the kind that left them cuddling on the couch in the dead of night, staring at nothing in particular and reminiscing on the dumb shit done by dead friends. It was the kind that everyone else could recognize, too, because a wild Harry Potter passing by the living room’s open double doors immediately softened in his step and whispered a _goodnight_ into the air before stumbling up to his bedroom.

They were older, now, and fewer in number. But they were so fucking tired of worrying about that.

**Author's Note:**

> writing this felt soft and wholesome and healing i hope it comes off as healing


End file.
